Into Oblivion
by merlinmercury
Summary: Castiel took a long gulp of vodka and tried not to think about Dean Winchester. In the very depths of him, the Leviathan laughed at his misery.


_I just have a lot of Cas feels._

* * *

Castiel set yet another empty vodka bottle on the dusty floor of the old building. It was an abandoned school in Russia; an effective hiding place, but one which he found reminded him too easily of the many lessons he was continually learning, always in the hardest possible ways. With the flick of a wrist he broke open another bottle, one of a hundred or so he had gathered from stores on his way. The alcohol had had no notable effect so far, however; he had too much power, too many souls inside him. Castiel was god now, for all intents and purposes—and being god was evidently not compatible with the desire to drink one's thoughts and feelings into oblivion.

He took a long stream of gulps from the fresh bottle and tried not to think about Dean Winchester. He was _god. _Dean Winchester was a speck of human history, standing in arrogant denial of his right to rule.

At least, it had been easy to see things as black and white when the power was new and electric, flooding his body with such intensity it begged to be commanded, begged to dance out from his hands and smite those who disobeyed. The buzz had faded as those darker, older monsters had awoken.

In the very depths of him, the Leviathan laughed at his misery.

Piece by piece, Cas' memories tucked themselves back into the forefront of his mind; memories of desperation, the need to save heaven and earth from every angel and demon all at once. The loneliness of such a task. The reassuring promises made to himself that Dean would understand, Dean would thank him when he realised that Castiel had done all that he had for_ Dean's sake—_that he had not had a choice, that this had been the only way. He believed it was what Dean himself would have done in Castiel's shoes.

And yet Dean had called upon none other than Death himself to see to Castiel's disposal almost immediately. For all the frustrated years Dean had spent refusing to kill Sam, refusing to let Sam be killed despite his descent into addictive darkness, Dean had barely even attempted to rescue Castiel. He was not Dean's brother the way Sam was, but the Winchesters were the closest thing Castiel had left to a support network, friends, family. He'd seen so many of his brothers and sisters killed, slashed through the bodies of too many of them with his own blade, there was barely any room for love left in heaven nowadays. Castiel had found hope in that love which he had found on earth—but while he was free to observe its power, it extended only hesitant tendrils towards him personally. It made him ache, empty in ways an angel shouldn't feel.

More bottled emptied their contents down his throat, more full ones taking their turns in his hand. Castiel wondered whether, if he tried, he could let the icy cold seep from the air through his skin and into his bones; he remembered that such sensations had raced through him when his grace had been stripped away as the apocalypse unfolded. Castiel breathed out a huff of air, which clouded in front of him. The world was so full of small miracles. Castiel knew he could never have engineered such a creation—he could only hope to account for his Father's mistakes in ruling over it. Castiel's presence would be _felt, _never doubted, never absent.

He remembered setting out to confront those who called their hypocrisy his will. He remembered coming to, surrounded by blood and bodies.

The Leviathan scratched their approval upon his vessel's intestines.

Castiel knew he was out of his depth, knew it was only a matter of time—but when had it not been? There was always someone speeding into the hungry mouth of death, bound by bargains struck with fear itself, heroic gestures dragging southward, pursued by demons and angels and hellhounds and even other humans. There was always someone on the line, always someone tripping and falling right over it—and there was always someone to pull that person back, whether from the imminent flatlining of a heart monitor, the racks of Hell, or Lucifer's cage. More often than not, it seemed to be Castiel doing that pulling. Nobody could lift him out from under the weight of this, though. What was more, it seemed nobody _would_.

His fingers tugged absently at the peeling skin of Jimmy Novak's face. His visage had been aesthetically pleasing to begin with, a notable asset when Castiel had needed to interact with humans. Now, they looked upon him and saw a leper, a creature crumbling in body and, for all they knew, mind alike. They saw a rotting lunatic, not a righteous lord. They turned away, even though he had made himself known to them, proved beyond doubt that he was there for them as his Father had not been.

Castiel was running out of vodka and still he could feel none of the pleasant warmth of numbness he remembered as being alcohol's gift. He would not have done this if he had had any other choice. _(Why could Dean not see that?) _He would throw the souls back into Purgatory if he could, now that his battle had been fought.

Could he do that?

Castiel knew that Dean and Sam were in the process of hatching a new plan, presumably one to reopen the door to Purgatory. He would not have thought it possible, but he knew the Winchesters better than that.

What if he were to go to them, to rid himself of the souls churning like a lightning storm inside him, threatening to explode? Could he survive that?

Probably not, he thought. Such miracles were generally reserved for the lead role. Castiel had never been that; he had spent millennia before meeting the Winchesters never even wondering what it might be like to be important, _really _ had been a foot soldier, not even a gun but a mere bullet; he had not been the first to dive into Hell charged with the retrieval of Dean Winchester, nor had he been the last of his rank lined up to do so. Now, Castiel was _god_, and it had felt so strange, so heady to have all of heaven and earth submit to him—but still the Winchesters, in their stubbornness, were the heroes; Castiel, in having saved the world from Crowley, had merely earned a short-lived stint as a villain in their story.

Castiel lamented the fact that it seemed impossible to create alcohol strong enough to effectively intoxicate himself. He wondered if his Father had been able to do it.

That was it, then, really, wasn't it? As always, he had no choice but to go to the Winchesters. He would need to apologise, beg if he had to. The Leviathan grew restless; he could not hide his loneliness from him.

Castiel considered taking a bottle of vodka with him when he went, but he knew Dean preferred whiskey.

With a small tearing sound, the room emptied.


End file.
